


The blood in her hands

by anddirtyrain



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anddirtyrain/pseuds/anddirtyrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Red Room teaches Natasha that love is for children, and she is not a child anymore. It's the first drop of red in her ledger, and one of the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The blood in her hands

The little blonde girl came in at night, was pushed into her room as thunder roared outside. Natalia is dead. Natasha is her name now. And she has been here a while, her only company the big black spiders in the corner of the room and the other six girls, all huddled in their tiny beds with not enough blankets for a Russian winter.

And now, this little fair-haired girl, tiny and fragile-looking, crying in the middle of her room, weeping for her papa and her mamuyla. Fool, she wants to scream at her. Stupid fool. You no longer have a mother. And even though it's been 3 winters since she was pushed in here. And she's schooled herself into not crying when she's hit, or begging for food after days without, she still remembers, albeit faintly. Not the face of her mother, or the lullabies she sang, but the flesh memory of being held is still present. Part of her still feels human; her child's soul remains unblemished. Even when they've tried to torture it out of her. Even if she recites, a hundred times everyday

_I have no mother_

_I have no father_

_my only allegiance is to Russia_

But everyday, it's fading. She's 7 years old and doesn't remember what a hug feels like. And the tiny girl keeps screaming and the sound has woken up the other ones, she knows it won't be long until the caretakers come and beat her to a pulp so she will finally shut up. It's her first memory of the Red Room. That first night, after mama went away, she cried and they punished and she never did again. Against her every instinct she rises up from her bed and whispers, rather harshly

_Shut up, they will come and punish you!_

But the child keeps crying, and she knows she can't be much older than her. Natasha is not a child anymore. That was the first thing she was taught. That she may be young, 7 years old, but not a child. But that girl still was, even though not much longer. It feels like a personal rebellion, against the caretakers or the facility or the country, she does not know. But she slowly climbs out of her bed and walks toward the child, pulls her to her feet and then walks back, pulling her to her own bed and sharing the warmth of the blankets. It's a foreign feeling to her, offering help. It's an instinct they've tried to squeeze out of her, tried to push so deep she would never know how to care. But still she did it. Always the exception, Natasha; the fault in the system.

She tries to calm her down, pats her back like her mama (it comes back now, in flashes) used to do for her. Asks her how old she is and the child raises 4 fingers. Her name is Evie.

She cries, although muffled by the blanket, and holds to her for dear life. Natasha doesn't know why, but for the first time in 3 years, she feels the sting of tears behind her eyes. She hugs Evie back, and sinks into a peaceful sleep. Comforted as much as comforting.

When she wakes up the next day, the little girl is gone. And she is tied to a bed in another part of the building. When she wakes up, alarmed, a caretaker she has never met before is waiting for her at the door. She is sharp, and instantly schools her features into a much practiced blank face. She breaks out of the handcuffs with a hair pin, just like she was taught long ago, takes the bound off her legs in record time, and silently follows him out the door. A feeling of dread settling over her like fog. But she knows not to ask, or argue, or plead.

They reach a door, and she can hear the cries coming from inside.

_And now, Natasha, you will do what you are meant to do_.

The man opens the door, and Evie is strapped to a chair, her face blotchy and red, blonde hair matted against her forehead, tears streaming down her face. She stops the senseless (hopeless, she knows) crying and kicking when she sees her though. Focuses her big blue eyes on Natasha's face. (Sky blue eyes that when Natasha is older, she will still remember and shudder inside)

_help me!_ She screams, and Natasha can see the red in her wrist where she's been pulling at the bounds to break free. That's not how it's done, she thinks, as she turns around. Surveying the room and the situation just like she was taught. There is a table, and many weapons. There is a big mirror, but she knows it is not really a mirror. She can feel the eyes of the people behind it, can feel their anger, their thirst for blood, either Evie's, or hers.

She understands the question being asked. Makes her choice in the bat of an eye. She picks up a butcher knife from the table and walks toward the girl.

_Goodnight_ She whispers, before slashing her throat. Blood gushes out and the little girl gurgles before she dies, a deep sob of blood and misery that stains Natasha's white nightgown, sky blue eyes go dull and she's done.

To the people on the other side of the glass, the redheaded girl's words still resonate in their ears, the sweet childish voice contrasting so deeply with the act she committed. They know this right here, this creation, is something beautiful. Something to be proud off. They know she is still young, but deadly, like she should be.

Natasha knows that little Evie is better of dead.

She did what she was always meant to do. She may have had a mother once (she thinks she remembers), but now her only allegiance is to Russia, and this is what Russia wants of her. (She thinks, she's not sure.) But this is what she is being taught to do. Already in an older girls' class she's so good. But still there is lump in her throat at the sight of the body, she drops the knife, blood splatters on the ground. She doesn't let her chin tremble, tries not to cry, because then they will punish her. She can't be weak. The door opens and her gaze goes from the body to the caretaker waiting for her, a smirk on his face.

She obeyed. She did what she was meant to do. She made them happy.

Still, both of Natasha's arms are broken by the time they are done with her. Your arms are a tool for bringing death and suffering to the enemies of Russia, she is told, when they break her right arm. Not for bringing comfort or taking care, they say, when they calmly break her left. And she believes it. It is much easier to just let herself be shaped into what they want her to be.

So her arms are broken, and then set back into place. But it will never be the same. And for the rest of her life she will favor her legs when fighting, will block and attack with them. Even when after a year, there is no physical need for her to do so anymore. The wounds inflicted (those that didn't bleed) will never truly heal; it is ensured that she will commit this lesson to memory.

When she's older, she will wake up from a nightmare and still see a little girl's hand stained with blood, but these times she will know she was the cause.

She will remember this day. It's the day she acquired the first drop of red in her ledger. It is the first time she kills someone, and the first time they unmake her.

Natasha will never remember being held by her mother again.


End file.
